Are You Still Mad?
by Ginger Glinda the Tangerine
Summary: A series of oneshots based on the song by Alanis Morissette. MoJo, MimiRoger. Lots of fighting inside... you have been warned. Rated for the last chapter only.
1. Joanne

_A/N: Okay, this might take a little explaining. :D This is based on the Alanis Morissette song "Are You Still Mad". In the song, Alanis asks an ex if he's still mad that she did various things. While I was listening to it, I kept thinking, "That sounds like Maureen... that sounds like Roger..." SO. What I have done is assigned a few lines of the song to Maureen, Joanne, Mimi and Roger, written a oneshot about each character and the reason those lines apply to them. Savvy? No? It doesn't really matter, just enjoy it anyway. :P_

_Many thanks to GorgeousSmile, who looked over this chapter for me and motivated me to write Maureen's!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, or the song "Are You Still Mad". This is just a coincidence, honest. ;)_

...

Joanne walked into the kitchen and tried not to make eye contact with Maureen, who was sitting at the table in her pyjamas. She knew the diva was going through a tough time right now, auditioning for a role in a major off-Broadway show that could lead her to stardom, as well as trying to organise a protest against another one of Benny's property development schemes.

But really, did she have to be so obnoxious about it all? She had come home last night, and complained for three hours straight about the people she'd had to talk to that day, the problems she was having with her sound equipment, the way some old guy had looked at her on the subway on the way home… Joanne had felt like screaming.

And then, Joanne remembered, dumping instant coffee into her mug with slightly more force than necessary, she had the nerve to turn around and say, "Oh, how was _your_ day, Pookie?"

Joanne hadn't wanted to talk to her at all, much less about the complex ethical issues she was having to deal with in her latest case. She couldn't stand the contrast of sidestepping confrontation and being carefully, quietly diplomatic at work all day only to come home to her loud-mouthed, opinionated girlfriend.

Joanne sat at the table opposite her girlfriend, and pointedly opened the paper when Maureen tried to talk to her. Maureen had slept on the couch last night for a reason.

If only Maureen were a little less… loud, Joanne mused, staring unseeingly at an article about exchange rates. She'd often found herself hushing her girlfriend in restaurants, pleading with her to wear something just a little less revealing, or even begging her not to dance on so many Life Café tables. She shied away from the nagging thought that she was trying to change Maureen into something different. She was just trying to stop the diva embarrassing herself. Yeah.

Maureen slammed her coffee mug down, causing Joanne to jump. "What is wrong with you?"

Joanne looked up. "What?"

Maureen got up and snatched the paper away form Joanne, shaking with rage. "I had a _shit_ day yesterday, and I really needed some support, but all I got was, 'I need some space, Honeybear'. And I slept on the fucking couch, so now my back is hurting like hell, and you can't even say good morning to me!"

Joanne sighed, and swallowed her last mouthful of coffee. "I didn't realise you needed _support_," she pointed out bitterly. "If whining at me when I'm trying to work is your idea of telling me you need support-"

"You're supposed to know," Maureen interrupted. "Aren't you all about being a good girlfriend? So could you at least try practicing what you preach?"

"Maureen, I need to get to work. We'll talk later, okay?" Joanne got up and picked up her handbag. Maureen threw herself back into her seat, glaring a hole in the floor. "There's last night's lasagne in the fridge if you're hungry," the lawyer continued. "I'll probably be back late."

She leant down to kiss Maureen's head, trying to show at least a semblance of affection, but the drama queen jerked away. "You're not my mother, Joanne."

Joanne walked out of the apartment without another word.

…

That night, Joanne let herself into the apartment as quietly as she could, dumping her bag and keys on the table along with a mound of paperwork she'd have to work through before the next morning. Sighing, she flicked on the light and walked to the fridge to see if Maureen had left any lasagne. There was a note taped to the white surface, written in angry black marker.

_Joanne. I need some fucking space too. I'll be at the loft if you need me, but I won't expect you to call._

Joanne sat back at the table, clutching the note, shocked. She'd expected this fight to blow over, just like all their others. She'd been looking forward to the makeup sex; it had been the only thing getting her through her hellish day at work. Maureen was unpredictable, though, and Joanne probably should have taken that into consideration.

Before she realised what she was doing, Joanne had picked up the phone and dialled Mark and Roger's number, pressing the phone to her cheek as she waited for an answer.

"_SPEEEEAK."_

"You and your screening," Joanne muttered. "Guys. It's Joanne. Uh… Maureen said she was staying there? Could you… could she…" She gave up, realising how pathetic she sounded. "Tell her to call me, okay?"

She slammed the phone down angrily, tears boiling at the edges of her eyes. How often was it that Maureen stayed mad longer than Joanne? Usually she came crawling back within a day or two. Not that she was weak, or clingy. God, Joanne thought, she was the exact opposite of clingy. And she was one of the strongest women Joanne had ever met. She was incredible, really.

Joanne stood up, not believing the things she was allowing herself to think. She always prided herself on taking charge, but when it came to Maureen she found herself strangely cuckolded, unable to control things. But she could control herself, she resolved, and that meant she could make herself march over to the loft and sort this out.

…

By the time Joanne had negotiated the New York foot traffic over to Avenue B, it was colder than the morning radio had predicted. Joanne's breath curled in frozen tufts in front of her face, and her fingers felt like the gross frozen fish fingers Maureen inexplicably loved so much. She banged on the door of the loft with a flat palm, and breathed on her hands as she waited for it to open.

When it did, Joanne found herself almost nose to nose with Maureen, who looked as surprised as Joanne felt. She quickly recovered, and glared at the lawyer with a set jaw.

"What?"

Joanne looked at the floor, then back into Maureen's eyes. A stupid move, as she immediately found herself lost in them.

"Honeybear," she said in the smallest voice she'd ever used. "Are… are you still mad?"


	2. Roger

There were no happy endings in New York.

Roger refused to look at Mimi, knowing the sorrowful look on her face would make him crack and beg her forgiveness.

"I gave you chances," he said softly.

"I know!" Mimi was about to cry. He could tell without looking at her. "I know, baby, and I messed up. I'm so sorry…"

Roger forced himself to look into her eyes. "Mimi…"

She dared to take a few steps closer, reaching out to touch his arm. The light caught the spider webs of raised veins scattered over her arm, and he stared at them. Each line pierced his heart like a tiny piece of glass. Mimi saw him looking at her track marks, and tore her arm from his, turning away from him.

"I know I screwed up," she said quietly, her words climbing out from between her clenched teeth. "I'm trying to get better. But you know how hard it is."

"Don't drag me into this!" Roger exploded. "This is _your_ problem, Mimi! I'm not the one who swears blind she's quit only to shoot up the next day! This is all to do with you, and I'm not sure how much more I can take."

Mimi let out a choked sob. "I know it's me! But you've done this before, Roger, you should know how hard I'm trying!"

"I did this with _April_!" Roger hated bringing the spectre of April into Mimi's life. Even saying her name felt foreign. But Mimi had never understood the difference between herself and Roger's other girlfriend.

"And she gave up," Roger continued, crossing the room to touch Mimi's arm. She turned to look up at him, her eyes huge and dark with sadness. "She… she died. And I can't lose you like that."

"You won't," she promised, and leaned in to kiss him, thinking the argument over.

Roger stepped back, pulling away from Mimi's embrace. "But I can't watch you destroy yourself, either."

"I won't!" Mimi was eager now, desperate to salvage the momentary peace of seconds ago. "I swear, I'm giving up for good, Roger, and-"

Roger's words cut through hers, cold and harsh, almost before he'd formulated the thought of saying them. "It's me or the smack, Mimi. I'm not making the same mistakes I made before."

There were no happy endings this time. Sure, they could pretend, but Roger knew better than anyone that sooner or later reality would overcome delusion. He and Mimi were over for good this time, he decided, despite his urge to run out the door after her. His last words still rang in his ears.

She'd looked at him like she didn't know who he was, and stormed out, taking all of Roger's hopes of happiness with her. He needed her more than he'd ever needed anything that didn't come out of a needle, and he loved her with all his heart, but he couldn't handle her addiction. He'd trod this ground before, and so had she. This fight was old, and it was predictable, but it hurt every time.

But it didn't matter anymore, because he and Mimi were over. He'd made a decision, and there was no turning back now. Roger flopped onto the couch, unconsciously tangling his legs so that if Mimi returned she could curl comfortably into them. His mind wandered back to the night she'd burst into his existence, bringing life and excitement… and drugs. Funny how all his best memories of Mimi were undermined by his hatred of the little plastic packet.

And she'd sweetly spouted philosophy and pleaded with him to be reasonable. He smiled softly as he recalled her face and her pleading eyes… her eyes. They had gotten him through Angel's death, and their memory had comforted him when he'd thought he had lost her forever. They were beautiful. He hadn't been lying that Christmas Eve. He'd always had a secret suspicion that the only reason his song had brought Mimi back was because it was the only true thing he'd ever sung.

But their problems hadn't miraculously disappeared with Mimi's coma. She'd woken up on Christmas morning jonesing, and he'd had to physically restrain her from leaving the loft. That was when he knew it wouldn't end well. He'd subconsciously given up on her, as selfish as that sounded. He knew that it would take a fucking miracle for her to get clean, and he wasn't sure he was that miracle.

Every time they'd fought since Christmas, Roger has been ready to end things. Sometimes he'd even deliberately escalated the argument beyond regular parameters just to see if she'd leave. It was completely out of line, and he knew that, but somehow he felt that breaking up with Mimi now would be easier than watching her die. He'd never been good at losing things.

Mimi had been so sure they could make it work. She'd always come back.

The memory of her standing in his bedroom doorway after they'd fought, patiently waiting for him to notice her, caused involuntary tears to spring to Roger's eyes. He reminded his less romantic side that every minute he spent resenting her and every minute she wasn't within his reach was one minute he'd never spend with her again, one less minute she (and he) had left to live. She'd been adamant about that. She always rushed the making up part, so they could have more time together.

Mimi had made so many sacrifices for him, but the one sacrifice he required of her she hadn't been able to give. Roger was furious at her for that, yet at the same time he understood the pain of trying to quit. But there was always a tiny part of him that demanded it of Mimi, a tiny part that decided, _if she loved me, she'd do it_.

"But she does love me," Roger said, unaware that he had spoken out loud. His words hung in the dry air of the loft, too quiet to echo. Mimi loved him, and he knew, with every fibre of his being, that he loved her. And she was slipping away from him, minute by agonising minute.

Did the smack really matter?

Roger ran to the window, hauled it open and (less than gracefully) climbed onto the fire escape. He saw Mimi on the corner of Avenue B, a tiny huddled figure of pure misery. He leaned on the railing and yelled, "Mimi!"

She turned and looked up at him. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, but he was beyond caring. He held out his arms, his face arranged into a sheepish smile, then let them drop by his sides. "Are you still mad?"


	3. Maureen

_Thanks again to GorgeousSmile for looking this over for me!_

...

Maureen giggled and sipped her beer, glad to momentarily tear her eyes away from the girl who sat at the bar next to her. She couldn't even remember the blonde's name, but she knew it was something weird and Upper East Side-sounding. She couldn't imagine ever sleeping with her, much less dating her or moving in with her. But she was fun to flirt with, and right now that was all Maureen needed.

Because Joanne was busy. Joanne was always busy, always working, always so busy she never had quite enough time for Maureen. Usually the drama queen accepted this situation when Joanne was working on a difficult case, and she prided herself on being mature enough to give her girlfriend space. But the case Joanne was working on now didn't seem to Maureen to be that important; it had been going on for weeks and if Maureen had been involved she would have been more than happy to have called a stalemate by now. But Joanne was apparently too professional for that, or something.

Maureen was startled from her thoughts by the blonde's hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?" the girl asked, looking concerned.

Maureen smiled, and took another mouthful of beer and a wild stab at her companion's name. "I'm fine, Claudia, baby. I just zoned out there for a second. What were you saying?"

Claudia – that must have been her name, because she didn't object – shook her hair and smiled, revealing a too-cute dimple on her right cheek. "What do you say we head back to my place?"

Maureen was about to accept, just for the hell of it, when her cell phone rang. She dug in her pocket to find it, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the call was from Joanne. She answered almost nervously, biting down the urge to ask Joanne what she thought she was doing calling when Maureen was technically about to cheat on her.

"Pookie?"

She didn't hear Joanne's response, because Claudia snorted and giggled, louder than Maureen had thought it possible to giggle, "Pookie?!"

She did catch Joanne's frustrated sigh, however. "Where are you, Honeybear? Is that another girl?"

Her unspoken _again_ hung on the connection between them, and her sigh sent a rush of static to Maureen's ear. The diva turned to Claudia, putting her hand over the mouthpiece. "Excuse me. It was really nice talking to you and all-"

The blonde's mouth fell open. "Are you _ditching_ me?"

Maureen rolled her eyes, gulped the rest of her beer and headed out of the bar into the quiet privacy of a phone booth, ignoring Claudia's open-mouthed squeaks of shock, before holding her phone to her ear again. "What were you saying, Pookie?"

"What the hell is going on?" Joanne demanded, her voice shaking.

Maureen giggled. Joanne was so over-protective sometimes. She didn't even consider the possibility that her beer was going to her head as she babbled, "Baby, nothing's going on. I just went out and had a couple beers all on my lonesome, and I was _talking_ to this hot blonde-"

"Talking?" Joanne interrupted. "I'm sure that's all you were doing."

"Wha- Pookie, it was! Don't you trust me?"

"Not really," Joanne admitted. Maureen sobered up at her tone, which flitted between desperate and vulnerable. A shiver ran down her spine as she imagined what Joanne's face must look like. Like it so often did, her fear only made her angry, though at what she wasn't sure.

"Would it hurt to try?" snapped the diva angrily. "I was just… okay, so I flirted, but is that such a fucking crime?"

"Last time we fought, you promised you wouldn't!"

Maureen let out a bitter laugh. "Okay, Joanne, you know I only said that to make you happy! This is me we're talking about, remember?"

Joanne bit back a sob, and it came out sounding like a half-hearted hiccup. "Honeybear, I love you. It would mean so much to me if you did try."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, alcohol was alcohol, and once it was in Maureen's system it refused to leave. It was the beer, and not anything else, that made her yell, "Stop trying to make me into something I'm not, Joanne! We both know that's never gonna happen!"

"I don't believe you!"

Maureen held the phone away from her ear in shock, sure Joanne's yell must have damaged her hearing. Her girlfriend's now slightly tinny voice continued, "You're so childish! Just because making me happy requires effort on your part, you're not prepared to do it! I'm sick of being the one who cleans up after you, and who always comforts you and loves you no matter what, only to be pushed aside and neglected because you want to have fun!"

Maureen let out a laugh that, had it had legs, would have swaggered. "Just because I wear the pants, baby, don't take it out on me."

Joanne's frustrated scream caused Maureen to wince. "Don't expect to be welcome home tonight," the lawyer snarled, and hung up.

"Fine," Maureen spat, and, shoving the phone deep into her pocket, headed for Avenue B to crash on Mark and Roger's couch.

…

Maureen woke up at six the next morning, and snuggled closer to Joanne, only to realise that "Joanne" was actually the back of the couch, and that the memories of their fight the previous night refused to leave her head. Sighing, she squeezed her eyes closed and tried to forget, but to no avail. Joanne's words rang through her head, and no matter how many cups of black coffee she made herself, she couldn't shake the dull headache they gave her.

She knew she should try harder for Joanne, and she knew Joanne expected more from her, but every time she deferred to Joanne's wishes it felt like she lost a piece of herself. If Maureen wore a shirt with a collar to Joanne's company dinner, despite how sexy she knew she looked and how much Joanne appreciated it, she wasn't truly herself, and she didn't think the lawyer had figured that out yet.

Still, Joanne loved Maureen, and Maureen damn well loved Joanne too, no matter how hard it was. Her mind made up, Maureen left the loft and made her way back to Joanne's apartment. She would win her Pookie back, and keep her, no matter what. This time she was serious.

…

Joanne walked into her apartment, exhausted, and wondered if Maureen had decided to show her face yet. She called out the diva's name, but got no reply. Deciding Maureen needed more time to cool off, Joanne headed for the fridge to get herself a much-needed beer, and almost tripped over the ice bucket that had somehow found its way onto the kitchen floor. She flipped the light switch to discover that the bucket was filled with, well, ice, and contained a bottle of expensive champagne. Joanne knelt to pick the bucket up, and the note attached to the bottle caught her eye.

_Look on the counter._

Joanne did so, bemused, and found a bouquet of red roses tied together with a new pair of suspenders. She grinned, lifting the flowers to her face to inhale their scent. There was another note sitting on the counter under them.

_In the bedroom. Bring the champagne._

Joanne walked down the hall softly, not knowing what to expect. A smile threatened to grace her lips, but she bit it down, determined to stay mad this time. When she pushed open the bedroom door, though, all thoughts of being mad flew from her mind.

The lights were off, and the bedroom was instead lit by dozens of candles, their scents mingling to create a perfect aroma. The floor was littered with roses, and in the centre of the bed sat Maureen, wearing hands-down the sexiest black lacy lingerie Joanne had ever seen. The lawyer stared at the room, speechless.

Maureen got off the bed and wrapped her arms around Joanne's neck, kissing her deeply. Joanne dropped the ice bucket and kissed Maureen back, all her anger gone.

Maureen pulled back and smiled, cupping Joanne's face in her hands tenderly.

"What do you say, Pookie?" she whispered. "Are you still mad?"

...

_Note: the last chapter of this series (Mimi's) will be rated M, simply because of the situation and the themes. but don't let that stop you from reading! :D_


	4. Mimi

_A/N: I thought it would be safer to point out that this is definitely musical!RogerMimi. Rosario Dawson doesn't have the same urgency and desperation, to me, that Daphne Rubin-Vega does, and that's what I've tried to portray here. Musica!RogerMimi seem to me to generally have more angst and more passion._

...

Mimi purred contentedly and curled into Roger's chest, one leg thrown over his torso.

"That beats dancing any day," she smiled, and Roger stroked her hair absently. "Especially with all those gross…"

Mimi shuddered, the feeling of sweating, aging businessmen's fingers slipping between her underwear and her skin suddenly erasing all the pleasure from her mind.

"All those what?" Roger's hand froze, and she felt him tense beneath her.

"N…nothing." She tried to smile, to assure him that it was okay, but he propped himself up on his elbows, toppling Mimi onto the bed. Disgruntled, she sat up and shook her head, smoothing her hair off her face.

"What do you mean?" Roger asked, touching her shoulder. She shook him off, angry that she'd ruined yet another perfect moment between them.

"It's not important," she muttered.

"It is," Roger insisted. He shifted away from her, and Mimi could see that he was working out what she meant and not entirely liking it.

"God, just leave it alone, okay?" Mimi clambered off the bed and began searching for her clothes. She cursed herself for bringing up her job again. Roger had a thing about it. And really, she thought, why wouldn't he? She wouldn't like the idea of sharing him with hundreds of other people, either.

Behind her, she heard Roger inhale. She snatched her underwear up off the floor and clutched it to her chest as she turned to look at him, and he glared. "You just compared me to your…"

"Audience," she supplied, her voice catching. Roger made no secret of his disgust towards her work, and it only ever made her feel ashamed.

"_Clients_," Roger corrected, his voice swimming in disdain. "You just compared fucking me to-"

"Roger!" Mimi yelled, an involuntary tear slipping down her cheek and surprising her, since it usually took more than this before she started crying. "I didn't mean to, okay? I didn't mean to bring up getting groped by forty-year-old men right after I had sex with you!" She hated being so blunt, but it usually shut Roger up.

Usually. Today, it just made him angrier. "Then why did you say it?" Roger demanded, yanking his pants on and standing on the opposite side of the bed to Mimi, putting as much distance and furniture between them as he could.

"Because I can't control what comes out of my mouth, baby, you know that."

"Or what goes in it, apparently," Roger muttered.

Mimi stood perfectly still, hardly believing Roger had spoken. When he made no move to apologise, the full seriousness of their conversation hit her and shocked her into anger. She flew across the bed at him, attacking him with fists, nails, anything she could. "You fucking take that back!"

Roger pushed her away and she landed in a heap on the bed, tangled in sheets and shame. "You did it with Benny. How do I know you're not doing it with other guys too?"

A strangled sob forced its way up Mimi's throat. "Because I love you," she choked. "And you're supposed to trust me."

"How can I?" Roger turned to her, and she could see him physically swallow his anger so that he could speak rationally. He sat on the bed next to her, but refused to look at her, his whole body rigid. "How can I trust you when you're getting ogled by other guys every night? How am I supposed to trust that nothing's gonna happen when you get paid to make sure it does?"

"Because…" Mimi took a deep breath. "Because that's how it works."

Roger rolled his eyes and got up. "I'm sorry I don't like the fact that my girlfriend's a whore."

Mimi didn't rise to the bait this time. The whore thing was usually a last resort, pulled out of nowhere when Roger was sure he was losing and was only still in the argument to make Mimi see how much she'd hurt him by hurting her back. She knew he was trying to make her mad, trying to make her justify herself. _Maybe I don't _need_ to justify myself,_ she told him silently, resenting his every word.

"Collins said you wouldn't like me going back," Mimi murmured, and Roger turned to look at her, appalled.

"You talked to _Collins_ about us?"

"Why not?" she said defensively, sitting up to look at Roger. "He's your best friend. He knows about you. I thought that if I talked to him about our problems then-"

"You don't need to tell anyone about our problems!" Roger yelled, turning away. He slammed his palm into the wall angrily before continuing, through clenched teeth, "That's why they're known as _our_ problems, Mimi. Nobody else needs to know."

Mimi understood where Roger was coming from. She hated talking about her relationships almost as much as he did. Usually, however, she had reason not to talk to anyone about them; she was often the only one who saw any good in them. This relationship, though, she knew the others relied on, and this relationship she wanted to save. But the only way she saw to save it was to ask someone else for help, despite her own, and Roger's, misgivings. She knew he couldn't see that, and she hated him for it.

"But we can't fix them. So I brought in outside help." Mimi spoke as if Roger was five. She knew that was unfair, but she didn't care. If he could be irrational, so could she.

"I'm not a kid, Mimi," Roger snapped. "I can work out my own issues."

"But you can't!" Mimi yelled, frustrated. "You can't make this better, this… I can't even call it a relationship, 'cause it stopped being one of those a long time ago. This is just a string of fights and makeup sex, and, okay, the sex is fantastic, but I want something _real_!"

"And clearly the way to get that is to get groped by people who aren't me and try to work out my issues with people who also aren't me." Roger clapped his hands slowly and sarcastically. "Bravo, Meems."

"Roger, that's not fair."

Roger let out a humourless laugh. "Yeah, because getting paid to basically cheat on me is fair, isn't it?"

Mimi screamed through clenched teeth. "You know what? Fine! If you're so hung up about me actually earning money-"

"It's not earning money, Mimi, it's selling yourself! There's a difference!"

"If you're so against me earning money," Mimi repeated pointedly, "then consider this… whatever it is… over."

She snatched up the rest of her clothes and threw them on haphazardly, ignoring Roger as he retorted, "So you can whine about me to Collins, but when it actually comes down to working things out you run away? Very mature, Mimi."

Mimi left the apartment by the door, purely so she could slam it as hard as possible, and ran downstairs to throw herself onto her own bed, letting out a loud, anguished sob.

This was how all their fights ended. After a few hours, sometimes less, sometimes even a whole day, one of the pair would return to the other's arms, apologetic and pathetic. Mimi knew this time Roger was expecting it to be her.

Lying on her bed and staring at her ceiling rarely gave Mimi perspective; usually it sent her thoughts spiralling into oblivion and made her even more confused than she was before. Today, though, her thoughts spun out of control faster than she could really keep up with, and she was carried into sleep on a tide of misgivings and regrets.

…

The next few days were a blur: Mimi worked, came home, waited for Roger to knock on her door and beg for forgiveness, waited for Mark to knock on her door and tell her that she should go and beg Roger for forgiveness, went back to work just to pass the time.

It was early on Sunday morning when she traipsed into her apartment dragging her bag behind her, too exhausted even to take her costume off before crashing on her bed. She had just closed her eyes and was on the verge of light, troubled sleep when there was an urgent knock on her door.

Mimi groaned and called out, "Yeah?"

Mark poked his head around her door, his face pale. "Mimi? I… Roger's sick. He's in the hospital, he passed out around ten. I knew you were gonna be home late, I came as soon as I could…"

Mimi had pushed past Mark and was down the hallway almost before she'd registered what he'd said. Without speaking, they took the subway together back to the hospital, Mimi resisting the urge to huddle against Mark even though she was freezing. The only person she could bear to touch right now was Roger, and she might not even have that privilege for much longer.

The hospital was half-dark at this time of night, employing some half-assed power saving scheme at the expense of its patients' comfort. Mimi spoke desperately to the receptionist, ignoring the woman's pleas that it was well past visiting hours and that she should wait until the morning, please. She ran to the nearest elevator and pushed the button for Roger's floor desperately, some bizarre instinct in the back of her mind telling her that she was getting closer to losing Roger every second.

Mimi threw herself into the elevator with the desperation of a mother searching for a lost child. Mark followed her, much more subdued, and took a gentle hold of her arm in the silence of the elevator. Mimi flinched and stared at the ground.

"Meems," Mark murmured. "Listen. He's not dead. He's fine. He's staying here for observation, because his T-cells were a little low, but they pumped him full of drugs and he's gonna be fine. You haven't lost him yet."

Mimi sniffed and tried not to cry. "I might have," she croaked. "I didn't… I haven't apologised. What if he dies before I apologise?"

"He won't," Mark assured her softly, but even his calm security couldn't prevent Mimi from running out of the elevator and heaving open the door of Roger's room with all her strength.

Roger wasn't asleep. He was staring blankly at the wall, his fingers tapping out a vague chord progression on his arm. Mimi looked at him for a moment, then knelt next to the bed and kissed his fingers tenderly, holding his hands to her face.

"Hey, Meems," Roger murmured, and his hand twined gently through her hair again. Mimi could almost believe it had never left.

"Baby…" she whispered into his warm palm, thankful for any kind of contact with any part of him. "Are you still mad?"

...

_That conludes this little series. I'm considering turning one or more of these into full multi-chaptered stories, so if you have any preferences, let me know! Thanks to everyone who took the time to review!_


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